Here I am with the first chapter :) I really hope you like it, truly.
That said, there are a couple of things I very shamefully neglected to mention in the prologue:
1) The titles of the story AND the single chapters are taken from the soundtrack of the show. It depends on what I was listening to when I was writing. Do check it out if you're interested, the whole thing is brilliant.
2) This is going to be AU. I'll try to keep the characters as in-character (lol) as I can, but it IS going to be AU. Very much so.
I'll stop blathering now, happy reading!
"…uh, ma'am?"
Lisbon startles, brings her attention back to the young, awkward agent that's speaking to her on the phone.
Something about a cleaning crew…? She has no idea.
She clears her throat.
"Yeah?"
"I'm Agent Williams, with the FBI," his voice is strained, impatient. "We're done here, ma'am, so if you'd like to come in a collect your-"
Oh, of course.
Lisbon closes her eyes, squeezes them tight, and prays for strength.
"I'll be there," she cuts him off, sharp, "This afternoon's alright?"
She can almost see him shrugging. Because of course, why would he give a damn about the workplace of a bunch of corrupt cops?
Doesn't matter about the people who worked to expose 'em, they're but a blip in the huge mess that Blake turned out to be.
"The sooner the better, ma'am, the cleaning crew's coming in on Monday."
"I'll be in later today, then," she decides, fiddling with the cross at her neck.
Today is going to be a disaster. Lisbon already knows she's going to be reliving it in her nightmares for years to come.
"Alright. Have a good day, ma'am," he says, relieved, before hanging up.
Lisbon stares at the silent phone in her hand for a long moment, her head bowed under the impressive weight of the consequences of her recent -and not-so-recent- choices.
It's- more than emptiness, or grief.
It's a huge, gaping wound in her chest, the pain of it so harsh and unyielding she can't see straight.
She wonders how it is she can still think, can still feel.
She should've died- with him.
Lisbon parks her car amidst two unfamiliar vehicles, pulls the brake, and kills the engine.
She doesn't move, doesn't want to.
That office- it's empty in every way that counts.
Dread has turned her feet into solid concrete, and her knuckles on the steering wheel are white.
A small, irrational part of her urges her to stop hurting herself so badly, start the car up again and drive away- far, far away from this haunted building and all the loving, cherished ghosts that inhabit it.
Mostly, though, she just wants to get it over with and skip straight to the crying fest that's sure to be on schedule for the evening.
She steels herself and before she can think twice, she's out of the car and marching straight towards the entrance.
The officers at the door are new, they don't recognize her and seem to wonder what the hell's she doing out of a holding cell when she tells them she's ex-CBI.
Lisbon shrugs it off, keeps her chin up and her shoulders squared.
She can do this. It's just- what? A matter of half an hour at most?
Then she steps inside the building and wants to walk straight back out.
It hits her like a freight train.
She almost staggers, leaning with a hand against the nearest wall.
Her pride is the only reason she's still standing at all, her eyes drier than the Sahara.
This is going to be bad, isn't it?
Lisbon feels eyes on her, the pitying yet indifferent stares of the officers at the entrance burning a hole through her skull.
She straightens up, dusts herself off.
They have no right- no right- to judge her. Nobody does.
Where the hell was everybody while she and her team were here, unable to trust anyone and fighting for their lives over and over again, just for the entertainment of a sick son of a bitch?
Bullshit. This is all bullshit. And nobody's ever going to deal with it for her.
Time to stop dawdling, Teresa, she tells herself, heading for the Serious Crime Unit's floor.
Her steps echo in the surrounding silence, and the familiar creak of the door ("We need to get it oiled, boss!") is more than a suitable soundtrack for her depressing trip down memory lane.
Purposefully, she never stops walking until she's in her office.
She slams the door, taking a step forward.
Her subconscious must recognize it as a safe haven, then, because she releases a long breath without meaning to, her posture growing less stiff, more defeated.
No need for masks any longer, she's alone. No prying eyes, nothing.
It echoes; her mind for a moment as empty as the space outside her office.
Nothing.
Lisbon shudders, then sets to work.
There's a bunch of empty boxes in the corner, from the whole mess with the shrink. ("I love you." "I know. I love you, too." Bosco's eyes shining, his hand warm and alive in hers. Jane killed him. Jane killed his murderer, and himself, too.)
She doesn't allow herself to think about it too deeply, afraid of what she might find down that particular rabbit hole.
Origamis. Her hammer, a bunch of photos ("Smile, Lisbon! No need to look so grumpy!"), two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of tequila.
Knickknacks that wouldn't mean much to anybody, but that make up the most difficult and challenging years of her life. The most beautiful, too.
("You got me a pony?!" She can't speak and hopes her eyes convey what she can't. Jane smiles back, radiant and happy like a child. That smile is burned in her mind, forever.)
Lisbon doesn't linger, makes it a mechanical, clinical affair.
Once the office's done, she moves to the bullpen.
Rigsby, Cho and Van Pelt have already taken most of their stuff, and Lisbon refuses to engage with the ghosts of their memories.
They're fine, she reminds herself. They're fine.
She checks their desks, just to be sure, and finds an old photo of Ben she'll have to give Rigsby the next time she sees him.
Jane's desk is empty, as always (there's no origami waiting for her in the drawer, no last letter, no photos.)
Were it not for a bunch of paper frogs in her boxes, nobody would've ever known that hey, Patrick Jane was here. He lived here, for the better part of a decade. He drank tea and did tricks and-
Stop it.
Lisbon lets out a shuddering breath, pushing forcefully back the tears.
She only wishes she didn't have to leave his couch here, really.
But there's no way she's going to be able to take it with her, whatever it is the direction her life takes after this.
Ignoring her reluctant heart, Lisbon gives the room a once over, picks up her boxes, and makes for the door without overthinking it.
She's almost outside when she realizes there's still a place she hasn't checked.
The sunset outside is stunning, it bathes Jane's attic in amber light, warm and welcoming.
A nice surprise, considering she was expecting darkness and lots of dust.
Her lips stretch in a reluctant smile, and she crosses the room to the window, brushing her fingers gently against the pane.
Lisbon watches the sunset for a long time, her thoughts surprisingly quiet.
She wonders how many times Jane must've done this, all alone up there, caged inside a prison of his own making.
And maybe it's the silence or the fact that he feels closer here, somehow, but she allows herself to think about how much she actually misses him.
She hopes he's alright, wherever he is. She hopes he's happy.
She's sure Angela and Charlotte will take care of him, will keep him out of trouble. She hopes he's missing her a little, too.
She just wishes-
Lisbon bites down her lips. Hard. Tastes salt and blood, and realizes she must've been crying for a while, now.
She wipes away the tears with her shirt, turning around to check for something- anything- that might've been left behind by the feds.
A faded yellow shirt -something she never would've pegged as Jane's- and one of his old vests is all she finds, so she adds them to the pile of little mementos in her boxes and leaves the room.
She catches blonde curls on the couch with the corner of her eyes as she passes by their old bullpen on the way out, and she can't ignore the agony that's been building up in her chest any longer.
It's like a quick hit to the stomach.
Her steps falter, and she feels momentarily blinded by the pain.
"Do you need a hand, ma'am?" one of the FBI Agents hovers, his hand ready to catch her if she falls.
Lisbon sends him a small smile, squaring her shoulders.
"No, thank you, Agent-" she catches his name on the tag and represses a giggle, "Grouch."
He shrugs, goes "Suit yourself" and escorts her out of the building.
Lisbon sets all the boxes in the trunk of her car, then settles into the driver's seat.
It's surprisingly easy, to leave Senior Agent Lisbon behind- because she's always going to be there, in good company, haunting the old CBI office together with Jane, and Bosco and her team and all the good people they've lost in this last decade-long crusade against Red John.
It's back to just Teresa, now, and Lisbon can't help but wonder what that means, or if it means anything at all.